


tipsy//turvy smitten

by paperfolds (starfolds)



Series: paperweight (on my back) [1]
Category: Gaya Sa Pelikula (Web Series)
Genre: Episode 8, M/M, POV Second Person, drunk!vlad, rated for vlad's foul mouth, set during 'that night'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfolds/pseuds/paperfolds
Summary: this ain't your fucking unit, vladimir. this ain't your unit.
Relationships: Karl Frederick Almasen/Jose Vladimir Austria
Series: paperweight (on my back) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071386
Kudos: 22





	tipsy//turvy smitten

**Author's Note:**

> you could love this boy with all your heart. (richard siken)

"Nilasing mo 'ko, eh."

Karl looks taken aback. Shocked into loss of words. Good. Because you mean it. You mean every barbed word and every pointed glare and every petulant slam of your foot. Yes, alcohol tends to dissolve what little remains of your filter—you've always been blunt, anyway—but on the flip side, being drunk (unfortunately) comes with your traitorous mouth spilling little truths that can be bundled into ammunition against you.

"Matapos mo 'kong saktan—" _(I was a complete wreck that night, actually.)_

"Lasang sisig mouth ko eh, you wanna try—" _(Ako, ako! Ako. I still want to kiss you and taste your mouth, tangina.)_

"Uy, 'di pa n'ya tinatapon. Umaasa pa s'ya." _(Oh fuck it all, it's me. I'm the one still hoping. It's fucking_ me _.)_

But Karl is Karl. He won't throw your words back at you. Sure, he can be petty and hurtful when he's angry, but he's not angry now is he.

He's not exactly angry at how obnoxious you're being, at this tantrum you're showing. Quite the opposite, really, once you allow yourself to look him in the eye.

His gaze mirrors the emptiness and longing and well of pain you'd been wallowing in since that night and it's a little overwhelming seeing it from him.

You retreat. You slam the bathroom door behind you. You clench your hands over the edge of the sink and stare at your wasted reflection. Your toothbrush sits in the same spot it has always sat at since mid-December.

The water feels freezing on your flushed cheeks. You rinse your mouth twice before reaching for your toothbrush. You brush your teeth twice too.

You're stalling, and you know it.

You've never been a coward. You've never backed out of a fight, results be damned. You rush headfirst into things without thinking but for some reason—

You dread what's waiting for you outside.

You splash your cheeks with water again, and wipe your face with his towel shamelessly. You owe Karl an apology for that night—countless apologies, even. Because you did the exact fucking opposite of making things easier for him, didn't you, Vladimir?

You and your rashness. Your fucking temper. You _knew_ where he was coming from, where he was, what he could and could not give. But did you fucking think? _No._ _As usual._

In that moment, all you thought about was you, you, you, you. What _you_ wanted. What _you_ felt. What _you_ needed.

Christ. You'd think being birthday twins meant He Up There would've at least given you a greater sprinkling of rationality over everyone else, but no. There's no single perk whatsoever.

Your sigh echoes in the small room.

You have so much to say to him.

You can't hide here forever.

But you gotta steel yourself first, dammit.

Because one way or another, your heart's going to break again tonight, isn't it. It's already cracking now, just from the mere sight of Karl.

Does he even know that he holds your fragile heart in his hands?

Karl did always say that you made him braver.

Time to put that bravery to work, then.

Karl's waiting when you finally leave the bathroom. His eyes implore you to sit beside him on the floor. He holds out a glass of water which you finish in one go.

You start talking, because that's what you're good at.

And maybe you _did_ get that extra sprinkling of rationality from Up Above because you manage to say what you need to say directly. Clearly.

You accept his truth and manage to speak your own, without breaking, without stuttering. Without hurting him again.

He leans his cheek on your shoulder so tentatively, so carefully, so hesitantly, like you would dare not grant this little request of his.

As if you could ever say no to him.

The two of you sit there, enveloped by the fragile silence contained within these four walls. Still connected by that single spot on your arm. You could feel the cracks in your heart spreading millimetre by millimetre, tiny clinks that would've been audible if your heart were truly made of glass.

(And you try not to listen, try not to dwell on it, because you would not be able to handle it if you did, but _his_ heart too was cracking at the seams, and one shattering heart especially when it's yours is too much to focus on already.)

You hear him sigh.

"Gusto mo pa ng tubig?"

"...Yeah. Yes please."

Karl smiles at you, because he's always been generous with his smiles. He stands, carefully, with a hand balanced on the table. He moves to the kitchen with your eyes affixed on his back.

Sobriety has long returned to you, but you still feel so fucking drunk, don't you, Vladimir?

_Nilasing mo 'ko, eh._

_Nalasing ako sa'yo._

You were drunk, from that very first time you saw those unreal lashes up close, his warm breath wafting over your palm.

You were drunk from his wit, the snap of his words, his sharp temper that matched yours, the way he didn't back down and lashed back just as merciless. He literally manhandled you out the door, remember?

You fought and you clashed yes, but he was also kind—a kindness that shocked you into silence most of the time.

A kindness that was so generous, so giving. Like it need not bear any thought at all. You can't go home? _May lugar ka rito_. There's bitterness surrounding your birthday (from not only) being shared with a major holiday? Here, a party just for you. You haven't danced with a boy before? He can be that boy for you.

How _could_ you not be so drunk on that kind of kindness that felt so effortless but was in fact a fuckton of effort after all?

You remember very vividly asking him one night: _may napili ka na?_ You remember similar words running through your head over and over and over that morning of your birthday, just as your hands bumped his in the chip bowl.

_Pwede bang piliin na lang kita?_

You almost had to bite down on your lip back then, just so the words wouldn't slip out.

He started crying not even a full minute after, too engrossed with the movie. That's when you took out your phone and began to discreetly film him. It was your selfishness speaking, more than any intent to make that small video edit for him later on.

Karl was—Karl was something else. Something more. Something massive you were too scared to give a name for.

If these little clips you stole from that day forward were the only way you could keep him, the only parts of him you could call your own—

You'll take it. It'll be enough, surely. A reminder of his smile, of the way his lashes fanned over his eyes or the way his voice got small when he whined. How he approached cooking with a childlike naiveté tinged with carelessness that almost scraped years off your lifespan. His grumpiness. The meticulous cleaning. All the quirks so uniquely his.

If he can't be yours, _truly yours_ —then surely it'll be enough that he lives in your phone.

But then you almost kiss and then you _do_ kiss and holy fuck it was sheer and utter bliss.

And then it was anything but, and here you are.

Here you are, seated where you always sit, staring at him by the sink. There he is, holding a clenched fist up in that silly childhood game that's become a habit.

(A habit you're trying to forget, really.)

He sits beside you—

(He always sat across from you, didn't he? But that night you kissed, that night you were both so hungry at eleven in the evening that you mixed three different flavour packets of instant noodles out of sheer need—that was the night he first sat beside you, wasn't it? That was the night he first held your hand and traced the callouses on your fingertips.

_"Gitara?"_

_"How'd you know?"_

_"Ganyan din kasi kamay ni mama."_

_"So, marunong ka rin ba?"_

_"Hindi eh. Iba yung pinag-aralan ko."_

And indeed his callouses were different from yours, borne from years and years of holding a pencil. His story poured out; your story followed. You grabbed your guitar after, just because.)

He sits beside you, and Christ, look at him. He's still so painfully beautiful to see. You ache to hold his hand again.

Your throat has closed down. It's getting hard to speak. You've run out of words, but Karl is just starting.

He weaves you a story, one that breaks your heart all over again. It's a story of what-if's and should've-been's. It's the kind of story you haven't even dared of—was too scared of—dreaming.

You hold him in your arms, this beautiful boy who keeps breaking your heart with every apology he utters for things he has no fault over. You hold him and kiss his forehead as he trembles from a pain no amount of rubbing his back can ever console.

He falls asleep first, just like always. Just like before. Karl slips into a restless kind of sleep that has him constantly fidgeting, that forms creases in his forehead that you keep trying to smoothen. The few remaining tangible shards of your heart shatter like sand as you wipe the tear tracks from his cheek.

Oh how you ~~already~~ ~~shouldn't~~ ~~already~~ could love this boy. If only. If only.

God, if only.

There'll be no sleep for you tonight, but you could at least make sure he gets his.

 _Nilasing mo 'ko, Karl. Nalasing ako sa'yo. At lasing na lasing pa rin ako, hanggang ngayon_.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](https://twitter.com/pairalin_/status/1337385016104349698?s=19).


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